


The Spy and his Quartermaster

by CaptainAmelia22



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AO3 Fundraiser Auction, F/M, Implied Torture, James Bond is a gravelly old man and Q is addicted to Earl Grey, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/CaptainAmelia22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Spy and his Quartermaster,” Q muttered with a chuckle as Bond’s hands tightened at his hips.  “That has a certain ring to it, wouldn’t you say?  Almost as if it were a spy novel we read in primary school.”</p><p>Bond closed his eyes and muttered,  “Wouldn’t know, Q.  I never cared for spy novels as a child.”  </p><p>“Of course.  Silly of me to assume you would enjoy such trivial things as spy novels,” Q said with a wry laugh and another kiss to Bond’s scarred hipbone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spy and his Quartermaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyefullofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/gifts).



> When I was notified that somebody had actually bought a story from me for the auction I have to admit I was a little shocked. I'm small beans on the archive and I wasn't expecting anyone to like my writing enough to even spend a dollar on me.
> 
> So thank you Skye, for giving me a chance!
> 
> I just have to say I'm glad I did this. It's been insanely fun and though I don't branch out much from the Marvel fandom when writing for myself, writing this fic has been interesting and challenging and so much fun. Skye gave her approval and after some minor adjustments we decided it was ready for the archive.
> 
> So here's my James Bond baby! 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it!

James Bond’s lips were trailing up jasmine scented silky skin when he got the call about Q.  

With a sigh he propped himself up on his elbow over the sprawled woman he’d spent the past two nights trailing and glanced at his phone.  It was a blocked number.  Which meant one of two things:  He was being contacted by MI-6 or the girl rocking her hips against his had friends on the other side of this Moscow hotel room’s door.  His lips curled into a dangerous smirk as the phone continued to buzz and he ducked his head to nip gently at the whimpering blonde’s ear.  She thrashed as his teeth grazed her tender skin and her bare legs, limp before now, tightened around his as she desperately sought the friction he’d been withholding from her for the past hour.  “James,” she moaned, her accented voice wrecked and he winced at the memories that accent brought to mind, as well as the pain her nails digging into his skin awakened in his scarred and battered body.  

He tangled his fingers in the hair at her crown and yanked her head aside so he could press dangerously heated kisses to the pale column of her throat.  She sobbed Russian curses at him as he continued to torment and tease her flushed and tender skin and a very large part of him, the cold and broken part of him that only one other knew and knew well, reveled in her agony as she writhed beneath his solid body.

He could do this all night, keeping her on the brink.  

He was no longer the hotshot agent intent on fucking his toys just to piss off his superiors.  Now he was the hotshot agent intent on breaking his toys on his way out the door.  He was cold, calculating and prepared to get the information he needed in any way he could.

He’d break her soon enough.  

The phone was still ringing.

“Natalia, pet, I must answer the phone,” he growled in Russian, his voice husky with false desire and his accent entirely nonexistent.  “Natalia” continued undulating beneath him and he knew now she was nothing but a toy, a tiny prize on the road to his gun at his mark’s head.  

She was just a piece in this chess game.

As he pressed his hips, still in his well-fitted tux pants, to poor, sweet, _stupid_ Natalia’s, he reached for his phone and impossibly Q’s words from just before he took this mission came back to him; he fumbled the phone and scowled slightly as the young pup’s piping voice once more filled his head.

 _Just remember Mr. Bond_ , the slip of a boy had said as he’d handed the agent his gun and a tiny pen that turned into a laser lockpick.   _Sometimes it is the pawns who win the game._

His hazel eyes had sparkled knowingly from behind the thick lenses of his glasses as he adjusted the pen in Bond’s jacket pocket and made sure the gun was loaded, with two extra clips (Q branch was getting better at stocking their most troublesome agent.  He hadn’t thought at the time about why exactly, simply smirked as Q’s long fingers cocked the Walther PPK expertly before handing it over with a sigh and a _Ever with the guns, Mr. Bond?  I have a rather clever device that will..._ )

Bond shook his head with a grimace as Q’s words about pawns and games came back to him and he glanced once more at the sprawled blonde panting beneath him before answering the phone; he and Q had been playing a rather intense game of chess while waiting for his commission and M’s final orders.  It was nothing, just Q being a know-it-all computer-nerd as ever.

So why this sudden feeling of unease?

“Bond,” he barked into the phone as he trailed the knuckles of his free hand over the pebbled nipples of the writhing beauty beneath him; she palmed his cock through the tight Armani but he barely batted an eye, simply pressed himself into her hand and smirked as she squeezed.  

The other person at the end of the line was silent for a moment and then-

“ _Hello Mr. Bond.  Enjoying Natalia?  She is the best of my pets, you know._ ”

Bond froze, his pale blue eyes widening at the cold, accented, voice coming over the phone and his teeth gritted into a snarl as his fingers tightened around the device.  

“I am rather enjoying your pet Anatoly,” he growled, his eyes narrowing now as his mind began working through the sex and alcohol haze he’d been in for the past few hours.  “She’s very _flexible._ Just the way I like my whores.”  He smirked and smacked the blonde sharply on her thigh and thrust roughly against her, making her cry out and arch beneath him.  

The man, his mark, the creator (benefactor?) of the Tuberculosis outbreak wracking Russia currently, chuckled slyly and Bond felt his skin bump at the cold calculation he heard there.  This was the closest he’d gotten to Anatoly Komitov, the first time he’d even heard the bastard speak.  

But he knew who it was.  

The greatest medical genius Russia had seen in decades and the man was creating Tuberculosis so people would become desperate enough to buy his untested and cancer ridden drug in hopes of defeating the deadly disease.  

 _Genius_ , as Q had said from over the rim of his mug of steaming tea when M debriefed them back in the bowels of MI-6. _Genius and bloodthirsty.  Create a super disease so your drug can become the market’s number one source of hope.  He will be making millions, every day the Tuberculosis rages in Russia_.   _Amazing..._

Bond hadn’t cared then and he certainly didn’t care now, so long as he got to put a bullet in the bastard’s head.  M had actually given him permission to finish the mark.  They couldn’t let him continue this Master of Death game anymore; they’d dealt with gods in the past and it had lost them good agents and good directors.

007 wasn’t going to watch the Russian orphanages grow if he could help it.  

Now that he thought about it, he rather liked this new M.  

“ _Mr. Bond, you’ve been causing me quite a bit of trouble.  You’ve interrupted several of my transactions over the past few days.  Scared my customers away.  That did not make me or mine happy.  Not wise, Mr.  Bond.  Not wise.  So are you listening to me?”_ Anatoly Komitov barked as Bond’s mind hitched into gear; he’d barely heard the last part, not quite aware of just what Komitov had begun to play at.   

Bond thrust his hips and pinched Natalia absently, making the little slip whimper and curse him in Russian.  His gaze was fixed on a point directly in front of their sprawled bodies, on a tiny thread poking out of the scarlet and gold upholstery of the chair the rested before.  He did not see the blonde beneath him, or the opulent hotel room M would most likely scold him for splurging on.  

Instead he saw...Q’s interested gaze locked on the blurred footage they had of Bond’s mark; he’d sipped his tea thoughtfully and enhanced the images of the painfully tall, painfully thin, Russian with absent taps of his long fingers on M’s keyboard.  M had watched him from the corner of his eye as he de-briefed Bond on just what actions he expected the agent to perform while in Moscow.  As ever, Bond had listened with half an ear and focused on Q.  If anyone in MI-6 understood how the Russian merchant of death worked, it was the tousled haired sweater-vested boy from Q branch that the previous M had seen fit to strap him with before her passing.  

What would the Quartermaster have to say about this phone conversation he was having right now?

Something clever, no doubt.  And he’d have found Anatoly Komitov by now, in whatever hole the bastard was holed away in.  All without jostling his mug of Earl Grey.  

Where was Q when he needed him?

“I am listening to you Komitov,” he muttered as he lowered his head to press a heated kiss to Natalia’s collar bone; she’d unzipped his pants as he spoke with her apparent boss and the pad of her thumb was even now stroking his trembling flesh.  His skin shuddered involuntarily at the sensations her fingers caused as they ran over his smooth slit and his muscles tightened at the bead of moisture rising to her touch.

He felt nothing though, past the base instincts of his body.

Q’s words were rocking through his mind once more.

_Sometimes it is the pawns who win the game..._

His eyes met Natalia’s as her boss chuckled once more and said, “ _Very good Mr. Bond.  Very, very good.  Then you know who I have sitting, chained in a chair, before me?”_

007 froze as the blonde pawn squeezed him with one hand and pricked his side with a poisoned needle with another and snarled, “What have you done Komitov?!”

And that’s when he heard a resounding slap on the other end of the line and a familiar voice crying out.

Q said his name.

 _His_ , Bond’s name, even as a madman smacked him awake and miles away a bitch stabbed his 00 with a sedative.  

“ _Bond!_ ”

James Bond surged against Natalia and her sedative, desperate to get to his Quartermaster but to no avail.

Anatoly Komitov was a god amongst the pharmaceutical players; he knew how to make the right cocktail of drugs necessary to wipe out a 00 agent like Bond.  He was ever the king of the game.

And Bond and his Quartermaster were ever the pawns on his chess board.  

 _“The boy followed you to Russia, Mr. Bond,”_ Komitov said, his voice mild and there was another smack in the distance and another sob.  His Q...M was going to kill him if the boy was injured.  Or killed.  “ _He thought he could beat me at my game.  Can you imagine Agent?  A slip like this,_ beating _me?  How ridiculous.  He’s been chattering about pawns and chess games.  I don’t think he’s quite right in the head.  But then...neither are you.  Natalia, finish him please.”_

“Fuck all,” Bond slurred as the shapely blonde he’d thought he’d played into his bed threw him off her muscular and sweat-sheened body, a disgusted expression on her face.

She no longer looked wrecked.

She looked like a queen.

“Sleep well Mr. Bond,” she purred as she slammed the gold heel of her stiletto into his phone, disconnecting him from his painfully young Quartermaster.  

He groaned and closed his eyes, his mind spinning with the panic he had heard in the boy’s distant and desperately young voice.  

 _So young.  He’s still a boy,_ he thought as his body betrayed him to sleep.   _Too young.  My fault..._

Darkness took him before he could think much more on the fallacies of MI-6 hiring young.  

**

_Mr. Bond?  Mr. Bond, you have to wake up!_

Somebody was calling to him, saying his name, desperation in his cracking voice.  Bond groaned and tried to fall back to sleep.

It’d been warm in his dream.

It didn’t seem very warm out in the real world.

_Mr. Bond, don’t fall back to sleep!  007, you need to wake up!_

Bond struggled to keep ignoring the voice calling his name but it was getting harder.

Bloody hell, it was fucking cold.  

_“JAMES!”_

Q bellowing his name (his actual name.  Countless chess games in MI-6 and the boy had never called him by his name) snapped him back to reality and he surged towards consciousness with a gasp and a curse.  Surged towards Q’s voice, to open his eyes on total blackness.

And chains.  

“Wonderful,” he said dryly as he rocked his wrists in the shackles some fuck-all had seen to clapping him in before slinging the middle of the chain over a hook in the ceiling.  “Chains.   Bloody fucking Chr-”

“Please Mr. Bond, you know how I feel about you cursing,” a painfully familiar voice, just as dry as his own, said off to his left.  He could just make out another set of chains rattling and the faint drip of some sort of moisture striking freezing cold cement.   

Bond tried to ignore the uneasy panic those sounds wrought and craned his head as well as he could in the direction the calm voice had emerged from and snapped, “Q, what the hell is going on?”

A sigh and Bond’s eyes were adjusting really quite quickly to the darkness of this apparent cell they’d been sequestered to.  He could just make out the faint glitter of the boy’s eyes and maybe the twinkle of thick lenses as they caught what little light managed to ease into the cell.  Despite the danger of their situation, Bond’s lips twitched into a small smile at the irritation he could hear on the pup as he shifted in his own chains.  Did they have his arms slung above his head as well?  Was Q shirtless too?  How long had his Quartermaster been chained up?

A dangerous desire to protect the slender kid suddenly began to coil in his belly and the agent, gnarled and scarred and more than a little jaded, paused his rattling and took a moment to wonder why he was so worried about M’s pet Quartermaster.  

“I really have no idea what is going on Mr. Bond.  But I do believe Komitov has abandoned us.  He said something before they threw me in here, about heading for Siberia and a new batch of Parovtak.  I certainly haven’t heard anything outside of that door, not since they brought you here,” Q muttered, his voice far calmer than Bond remembered it being in his unconsciousness.  His eyebrow arched at that but he didn’t question. Instead he concentrated on maybe breaking a thumb or yanking a hook from the ceiling.  He didn't pay as much attention to the boy as he probably should have.

“I do believe we’re in a freezer.  It smells like a freezer at least,” Q murmured, his voice soft and thoughtful.  Knowing the boy, he was already analyzing the cell, thinking of ways to either improve or destroy it, all without disturbing a mug of Earl Grey he was most likely craving this very moment.   _Will Moscow cafe’s have Earl Grey?_ he wondered idly as he shifted his chains and the boy chattered on.  “And when Komitov woke me for his little phone chat we seemed to be in the back of a restaurant.  Not that I saw much, but assuming it was, this would be the most likely place for them to lock us away.  Mr. Bond, whatever are you doing now?”

The put-upon tone was enough to make Bond hesitate, just before easing his chain free of the hook, and snap, “Getting free Q.”  

There was a sigh and then, “And wherever do you think you’re going to go 007?  We’re in a _freezer_ in the middle of Moscow.  There are _shackles_ and-”

His words were cut off by the sound of chains rattling and a pen clicking.  Bond swore softly with some more rattling and suddenly the cramped space they’d been hidden away in was full of the sizzling sound of a laser humming.  The agent’s eyes glittered in the half-light and his teeth flashed dangerously as he smiled a tight little grin in Q’s direction.

He could just make out the young man hanging in the corner from a meathook, just like his, and Bond tried to keep level headed about the bruises he could just see on the paler than pale skin of his Quartermaster.  Judging by the way he was holding his head on his neck, he’d say the dripping sounds he’d heard earlier were coming from a head wound.  

Which meant his Quartermaster was concussed.

_Fuck all._

Another sigh and then, “Please tell me 007, you did not dislocate your shoulder again, just to get free.”  

Bond’s lips twitched and he flipped the laser pen so he could aim the laser just right at the cuffs.  “Not this time Q,” he muttered as first one tumbler and then the next clicked free in the shackle.  “Enough slack for the chain to flip free.”  

Q let loose a soft, pained chuckle and Bond stilled as the chains fell uselessly to his feet.  “Of course, silly of me to worry,” Q muttered and alarm curled through Bond’s chest at the slurred quality of his voice.  

The agent rushed to his Quartermaster without a second thought and before he could think on his actions, his arms were tight around the boy’s slender waist and he was easing him up just enough for the chain to slide free of the hook.  Q barely protested when the warm muscles of Bond’s chest brushed his freezing skin and he sighed with a pained shiver as the agent eased him into his arms.  

“I’m sorry 007,” he muttered through chattering teeth, “but I think I need to lie down for a bit.  Wouldn’t happen to have a mug of Grey on you, in those pockets of your slacks would you?”

Bond shook his head and muttered, “No Q, I’m sorry.  I don’t.”  He cast his eyes around the dimly lit walk-in and sighed.   It was one thing that he was trapped, but his Quartermaster was stuck with him and he obviously was injured and could not handle the cold.  

What did an agent do then?

“Q,” he began stiffly but the boy patted his chest and slid his glasses up his nose with a put-upon sniff.  “William, Mr. Bond.  My name is William.”  

Alarm, the likes of which he’d never felt before, flared in his chest as he felt Q-William tuck his head in his bared shoulder and he swallowed.  “Fine, William,” he growled, “Do you have any ideas about how we get out of this freezer?”

Another soft chuckle and then, “Check the heel of your shoe, Mr. Bond.”

Bond hesitated with a cocked eyebrow in the boy’s direction and then he sighed.  “I thought you weren’t allowed to outfit me with secret devices any longer Quartermaster,” he growled as he trailed one finger slowly along the edge of his shoe.  There was a ridge that he pressed, habit after many long years with MI-6 and a faint click soon followed.  

A tiny radio slid free of the heel of his shoe and Bond couldn’t help feeling a bit nostalgic about Q’s pet device.  It had been one of the first toys his Quartermaster had given him, back so many months before.  And now it was coming into play once more.

“They’ll surely find us now,” Q, William the Quartermaster, murmured as Bond activated said device before turning to his shackles.  “I hope they hurry.  It’s terribly cold in this fridge.”

Bond rolled his eyes and held the slender boy closer.  “M will come, he’ll just come when it suits his purposes the most,” the agent muttered as his strong hands ran absently over his companion’s shaking form.  

It was odd touching Q when the boy wasn’t in his sweaters or corduroy slacks.

So terribly odd.

 _I’m going to kill Komitov myself,_ he thought to himself as he held Q and waited for a rescue.

Waiting never suited 007.  But having his Quartermaster ( _William?_ ) die on his watch suited even worse.  

The radio flashed at their sides and Q rested his angular cheek against his agent’s heart, a tiny smile on his lips and his eyes hooded as he listened to the steady beat beneath his cheek.

It was so terribly quiet in the freezer as they waited.

**

“I must admit, when they told me they found you in a meat freezer, wrapped together, I almost choked on my tea, 007.”

M’s dry voice snapped James Bond back to the present and he fiddled idly with the sling binding his right arm before shrugging his intact left shoulder.  “Anything to stay warm, sir,” he gritted out.  “The freezer was welded from the outside as you know.  I wouldn’t have been able to blast my way through if Q had outfitted me with an AK.”  

M was watching him.  Carefully.  Knowingly.  Bond wondered if the director knew what his agent had imagined while rotting away in that freezer.  What he’d felt when he’d held his Quartermaster.  

It wouldn’t surprise him, if the Director questioned him on his “intentions” with young William.  

“Komitov?” the man asked instead, his voice mild and his eyes blank.  

Bond smirked, the expression easy now that he and his Quartermaster were safe on Queen’s ground.  “Neutralized, as per your orders sir.  I did not feel it would be wise to let a man of that background walk free.”

M’s eyebrow rose and he nodded.  “Of course 007.  Your country and Russia, thanks you for your service.  Although,” he hesitated and Bond fought to keep still, fought to keep the memories of stalking the darkened streets of Moscow, a deep down chill from a meat freezer still in his aching bones, from overwhelming him.  Fought to keep the memories of Q shivering in his arms from rising to the surface.  He fought.  

M’s lips were lifted in a tiny smirk as he asked a question he knew he would never get the answer for, not from this particular agent, “Do you want to tell me how you finally beat Komitov and stopped the production of the bastard’s drug?”  

Bond rose and tugged his Armani straight.  “Chess, sir.  We played a game of chess.”  His blue eyes sparkled dangerously as M considered him and turned to leave, memories of cool ivory beneath his fingers making his left hand clench and his skin tighten along the back of his skull.  

“How did you beat him?” M asked as his agent made his way across the room, curious despite himself and Bond chuckled, the sound cold and stiff in the director’s opulent, mahogany enriched office.  

“My very last pawn checked the king,” he muttered as he pulled the door open and winked casually at Moneypenny, whose eyebrow rose as her lips curled into a knowing smile.

Chess was something they’d enjoyed together, once upon a time.  

Bond glanced over his shoulder to his director and smirked.  “Two weeks of leave sir?” he asked casually and M hesitated before nodding.

“You and your Quartermaster both,” he muttered, his gaze settling on the computer before him.  “Have a restful holiday 007.”

Bond smirked and closed the door.  “Nothing restful about my holidays sir,” he growled as he bent over Moneypenny’s desk and pressed a kiss to her cheek.  She patted his and shook her head.  

“Get out of here Bond,” she muttered, her dark eyes glittering mischievously as he stroked the back of his knuckles over her cheek, before straightening with a sigh.  “Say hi to Will for me.”  

He nodded and left MI-6 for two weeks of much needed holiday time.  He tried not to think about what may be waiting for him in his flat, what may have changed _this time_ while he met with M.  

Yesterday it had been the electric kettle.

Today...

Today it was the chessboard.

“Hello James...”

**

Bond was kissing wiry muscle, his lips trailing over skin that smelled faintly of musk, ozone and Earl Grey, when he got the call from Moneypenny, asking him to come in for a mission.  

“Eve, darling,” he growled as strong fingers trailed over the corded muscles of his back and legs twisted with his own.  “My Quartermaster is still on holiday.  I simply can’t do a mission without Q.”  

The soft vibrations of laughter hummed through his chest and he nipped gently at the curved collar bone just under his lips as a voice murmured in his ear, “Checkmate, Mr. Bond.”

A single finger rested on the cross of his white King and he watched from the corner of his eye as the ivory piece tipped forward to lay beside a tiny black pawn.  

Eve Moneypenny chuckled and asked, _“So shall I tell the Director you’re indisposed for the rest of your holiday?  All tied up?”_

Ice-blue eyes settled on hazel, framed by thick black frames and tousled brown hair and Bond, the ever dutiful, if troublesome, agent smiled before running his lips over heated skin, far paler and smoother than his own.  “Tell M his pawns are a closed file.”  

A soft chuckle over the line and a heated stroke of fingers at the back of his neck greeted his words and he hung up as his Quartermaster murmured in his ear, “M will never understand the idea of pawns winning the game Mr. Bond.”  

The agent smiled and threw the phone across the chessboard at their side before flipping their tangled bodies expertly so the pup straddled him.

“Which is why we make the perfect duo, William,” he muttered as fingers tangled together and lips flitted over throats.  

“The Spy and his Quartermaster,” Q muttered with a chuckle as Bond’s hands tightened at his hips.  “That has a certain ring to it, wouldn’t you say?  Almost as if it were a spy novel we read in primary school.”

Bond closed his eyes and muttered,  “Wouldn’t know, Q.  I never cared for spy novels as a child.”  

“Of course.  Silly of me to assume you would enjoy such trivial things as spy novels,” Q said with a wry laugh and another kiss to Bond’s scarred hipbone.  

He glanced up to meet the agent’s hooded gaze and smirked knowingly. “We must tell Miss Moneypenny to put that on our case-file for Komitov.   _The Spy and his Quartermaster._ M will so dislike that...”

 

 

 

  



End file.
